


Curtain Up

by followthattardis



Series: Computer Safety Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Castiel (Supernatural), Pre-Relationship, Timestamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:48:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23682643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followthattardis/pseuds/followthattardis
Summary: For Dean, it went like a dream: a handsome stranger approaching him at work, striking up a conversation and asking for his number.For Castiel, it went like this.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Other
Series: Computer Safety Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705486
Comments: 103
Kudos: 379





	Curtain Up

**Author's Note:**

> **Please note** : this fic contains spoilers to [A Crash Course in Computer Safety](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21320872/chapters/50775124), which should be read first. Seriously, you won't be able to make heads or tails of this fic without it.
> 
> While working on the sequel, I realized it would be helpful to flesh out Cas's side of the story before going further. So here you have it: the first chapter of A Crash Course as seen through Cas's eyes.
> 
> Shout-out to [Natalia](http://apermanentsituation.tumblr.com/), my long-suffering beta. I'm so grateful you keep finding time for me and making me question my writing in the best way possible. The titles of Dean's books are for you.

The plane touches down at LAX at 2:16 am local time, jolting harshly as its wheels make contact with the tarmac. Once on firm ground, it continues to hurtle down the runway, steadily losing speed as everyone around starts unbuckling their seatbelts and stretching their stiff limbs.

Castiel looks out the window instead, though his view is limited to the curved shape of the right wing, its safety lights flashing in the dark as the plane finally crawls to a halt.

“I hate rocky landings,” says Castiel’s neighbor, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a double chin. With a grimace, he wipes his hands on his jeans, then picks up his carry-on from under the seat in front of him and checks that the zipper’s closed. “I knew I should’ve flown United. Their pilots do it better.”

He slants a glance sideways as if expecting a reaction, but Castiel ignores him. Even on a good day, he doesn’t care for pointless small talk with strangers, and this definitely isn’t a good day. Besides, he’s flown at least once a month since he was twenty years old, both charter and commercial, and he’s never noticed any correlation between the quality of the landing and the name slapped on the side of the plane.

Unboarding is a familiar routine, and Castiel goes through the motions on autopilot. Shrug on the jacket; wait for a gap between people to slide into the main aisle; grab his suitcase from the overhead bin; follow the line of passengers filing out of the plane and towards arrivals; ignore how everyone pulls out their phones to call their loved ones and let them know they’ve landed safely.

Although Castiel made a weak attempt to catch some sleep during the flight, he ended up spending most of it wide awake and staring through the darkness, studying the way the plane wing split the air at thirty-five thousand feet. Once or twice he tried to close his eyes, head propped against the small window and hoping for unconsciousness to sneak up on him, but each time he wound up trapped in a nightmare of his own making. The details changed – maybe it was daytime or nighttime, maybe it happened inside a building or out on the sidewalk, maybe there was a chase first, maybe a barrage of fire that missed or just one well-aimed kill shot – but the outcome was always the same: a body sprawled out on the ground, shirt stained red as blood seeped from the chest wound, familiar eyes glazing over with that unmistakable, unseeing look.

Castiel almost wishes the scene _was_ a memory rather than a figment of his own mind. Had he witnessed it happen, there wouldn’t be any room for his imagination to run rampant. But he spent that evening ensconced on the couch at home, busy poring over a thick file folder containing detailed information about his next assignment. When Naomi called him late at night, he knew right away that she was about to deliver grave news. In an ungainly, half-hearted attempt at sympathy, she addressed him with a curt “Castiel” instead of the usual “Officer Novak”, then proceeded to brief him in clipped words, her tone level and clinical.

_Michael Milton has compromised himself. He attempted to flee with an invaluable asset he misappropriated from the agency and was shot dead while trying to break free from one of our facilities. Before he was dispatched, he managed to send the asset to someone we believe to be his accomplice. Your previous assignment is canceled indeterminately. You’re going to recover what he has stolen._

Two hours later, Castiel was airborne and on his way to California, every temptation to feel anything locked down tight.

Compartmentalize or die: that was one of the first lessons they taught him, validated countless times throughout his career. If you sustain a blow, you don’t stop and examine the wound. You don’t poke and prod at it, you don’t give it the opportunity to incapacitate you. You seal it away to deal with later, because that’s often the only way to ensure a later at all.

Despite this hard-gained experience, something – maybe the tiredness leftover from the flight, maybe the sheer scale of the loss – makes Castiel reckless. Walking towards arrivals, other passengers’ footsteps echoing behind and in front of him, he can’t help but skim the surface of this fresh injury, too expansive and too gaping to ignore. He lost colleagues before, had assignments go awry, had people go off the reservation, but none of those adversities left him struggling this badly to maintain a semblance of control over his emotions. None of them took him so utterly by surprise. None of them hit this close to home.

Against his better judgment, he gives in and lets it hurt, just a little. The ache flares and spreads, ice-cold and nauseating, as Castiel clamps his fingers hard around the handle of his suitcase. He regrets his moment of weakness almost immediately, but it’s too late; the shock and numbness have already started receding, and what lies beneath is— too much.

An overhead sign points to a restroom nearby, and Castiel makes a detour, speed-walking until he’s locked inside one of the stalls. He puts the toilet seat down and slumps onto it, suitcase tucked between his feet.

He gives himself ten minutes. He’s here on a job and all he can afford is ten minutes.

Face in his hands, he takes deep breaths to trick his body into calming down. So Michael is gone. The only constant in Castiel’s life for the last two years, someone who seemed damn near indestructible, always in control and two steps ahead, is dead. He turned on the agency – Castiel included – and paid the highest price for it. He bit the hand that had fed him for years and made a mess. As apparently the only exemplary officer between the two of them, Castiel is now going to clean up that mess, then move on. Alone.

Again.

With numb fingers, Castiel digs his cell phone out of his pocket and opens his conversation thread with Michael. The most recent message is his own and it reads, _See you soon?_

Fully aware that his self-imposed ten minutes are melting away rapidly, Castiel lets himself think back to the last time they saw each other in person. It was a stolen moment, like most of them recently. Michael had been getting more and more solo assignments, which meant that sometimes their paths wouldn’t cross for weeks at a time. The only reason they managed that brief meeting at all was sheer luck; they were supposed to miss each other by two days, Michael leaving on a new assignment on Friday and Castiel returning from his on Sunday. It was quite a surprise when he wheeled his suitcase from the elevator and down the hallway of his apartment building only to discover Michael waiting on his doorstep.

“There were some technical issues,” Michael explained at Castiel’s questioning look. “Long story short, I’m leaving tomorrow.” His lips curled into a smile as he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and whipped out a bunch of crumpled takeout menus. “Have dinner with me?”

They had dinner, then watched a movie Castiel doesn’t remember the title of, then jerked each other off in front of the TV without even bothering to undress. Michael was all over him, teeth and nails and a kind of greed he hadn’t shown in a long while. An honest-to-God growl of frustration left him when Castiel opted out of round two. Not wanting to take no for an answer, he went for all the sensitive spots; kissed, licked and rutted until Castiel had to push him off and explain, “Michael, I’m exhausted. I have a transatlantic flight to sleep off.”

“I’ll do all the work,” Michael murmured against his neck. “You won’t have to lift a finger.”

“Come on,” Castiel sighed. He wasn’t in the mood to be anyone’s sex toy. “As much as I appreciate that attitude, I suggest you save it for when I’m awake enough to enjoy it.”

Had he known, he wouldn’t have refused. He would have fought through the fatigue and kissed back and given Michael everything he wanted. If he’d known—

Oh.

It’s only now, with the scent of airport bathroom detergent in his nose and his hand cramping around his phone with the force of his grip, that it occurs to him Michael knew all along. He stepped into Castiel’s apartment that day fully aware that it would be their last time together. There probably weren’t any “technical issues” either; it was just Michael bending the rules to say goodbye.

Anger strikes Castiel like lightning.

Michael knew. Fucking asshole _knew_ he was about to pass the point of no return and either die or go into hiding. And yet he turned up for dinner and a handjob as if nothing was wrong. Whatever his motives were, he could have laid the cards on the table and asked for help. He could have said that he was in trouble without going into details. He could have at least prepared Castiel for the blow.

But no, instead he just wanted to get one more quick fuck out of him. He didn’t even stay the night, citing early flight the following day. All Castiel got was an open-mouthed kiss and a murmured “Take care of yourself, Cas.”

Castiel startles when somebody knocks on his bathroom stall.

“Dude, some of us gotta go real bad. You okay in there?”

It’s quite possible that Castiel has never been less okay in his entire life – which, frankly, is saying a lot.

“I’m fine,” he calls out, stowing away his phone. He flushes the toilet and breathes for two seconds, then throws the door open. “Apologies for the wait,” he mutters as he shoulders past the man in front of him.

His ten minutes must be up, anyway. It’s time to go back to work – rent a car, check into a hotel, update his superiors and await further instructions. The schedule is tight, and it has no free slots for an emotional breakdown.

* * *

Taking a sip of strong coffee bought at the 7-Eleven two blocks down from his hotel, Castiel examines Dean Winchester’s file.

His first conclusion is that he’s missed a birthday party. The target was born exactly 29 years ago in Lawrence, Kansas to John and Mary Winchester; mother deceased, father’s current location unknown; one younger sibling, Samuel; current residence in Burbank, California. The absence of both parents could be a potential red flag, but considering the mother was killed in a hit-and-run, and the father has a well-documented history of drunk and disorderly conduct, Castiel doubts it’s relevant to the matter at hand.

It’s when his eyes fall to the next section that things get interesting.

_Education: Stanford University School of Engineering, 2009 – 2013 (expulsion)_

Then,

_Employment: Burbank Buy More (Nerd Herd supervisor), 2013 – present_

Whoever compiled the file has included some additional information for Castiel’s benefit, explaining succinctly the reason behind Dean Winchester’s expulsion (“caught cheating”) and the nature of his job (“IT support – minimum wage”). There’s also a separate note at the bottom of the page, written in a concise, formal manner typical of all CIA documents. It reads:

_Former roommate of Milton, Michael (see separate CIA employee file). No traceable contact between the two since 2013. No connection to any intelligence agency found. No criminal record. No known associations with any terrorist organizations. No foreign travel within the past ten years._

Castiel frowns. His last conversation with Naomi led him to believe that Dean Winchester is Michael’s partner in crime and a threat to national security, but there’s nothing in the file to support that claim. The man has no ties to the CIA, hasn’t left the country in a decade and works a steady civilian job. Castiel supposes the job could be a cover, though the long stretch of time makes it unlikely. On paper, Dean Winchester seems completely harmless.

Then again, if Michael sent him a database full of classified government intelligence, he can’t be _that_ innocent.

The coffee has gone lukewarm, and Castiel winces as he swallows down another mouthful. With a practiced flick of a finger, he swipes down to the next page of the file on his tablet and comes eye to eye with a blown-up ID photo taken from a driver’s license.

Dean Winchester smiles at him, lips pressed together but the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. His face is—symmetrical, for lack of a better word. All of its curves and angles are right where they should be, nothing too close or too far apart. His jaw, his cheekbones, his brow, they all seem to follow some golden ratio. It’s an objectively beautiful face, the kind that would make a Renaissance sculptor cry themselves to sleep.

Castiel hums under his breath, appreciative.

People that attractive can be _real_ dangerous. And if Michael used to be friends with this man, then there must be more to Dean Winchester than his file suggests. Maybe he does have ties to foreign intelligence agencies, but managed to fly under the CIA’s radar thanks to his IT skills. Maybe he’s a sleeper agent – that would explain the extended cover. Maybe his Stanford expulsion wasn’t an expulsion at all, merely an excuse to withdraw from his college social circle and bide his time to… well. That’s the question. To do what, exactly?

It’s risky to jump into conclusions before even meeting the target, but Castiel figures that if he keeps himself occupied with trying to crack Dean Winchester’s agenda, he won’t have time to think about Michael at all.

“Younger brother,” he murmurs to himself, swiping across the screen to find relevant information. The two men live under one roof, which is rather puzzling. Either Sam Winchester is involved in his brother’s illicit affairs or Dean is playing a dangerous game, keeping him so close. His girlfriend, too.

Scrolling down, Castiel finds screenshots taken from Facebook and spares a couple of minutes to examine them.

It’s all so— common. Pictures with friends and food and a sleek black car, check-ins at bars around Burbank, lawyer memes (Sam), medical memes (Sarah), IT memes (someone named Charlie posts these regularly on Dean’s wall). Castiel knows better than most how deceiving appearances can be, but even he has to admit that if Dean Winchester truly conducts any incriminating activities, he manages to blend in as an ordinary citizen extremely well.

A buzzing sound interrupts Castiel’s musings, his phone vibrating where it’s perched on the table.

True to form, Naomi wastes no time on idle pleasantries.

“Have you read the files?”

“I have,” Castiel says, cradling the phone to his ear. “And I’m beginning to think that Michael might have sent that email to the wrong recipient. Is it possible his finger slipped? Clicked on the address above or below the one he meant?”

On the line, Naomi scoffs. “I highly doubt Milton would go into all the trouble of stealing something so valuable from us only to drop the ball on such a technicality.” She doesn’t ask where Castiel’s suspicions come from; she never does. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Whether intentionally or not, the Intersect has been sent to Dean Winchester. Now, our team has recovered the contents of his email account. The email itself is still there, but the attached file is permanently damaged. Our experts will keep trying, but considering Milton’s background in computer science, I won’t be holding my breath.”

“A built-in safeguard against repeated access,” Castiel mutters. Michael was always scary good with computers – just one of the many things Castiel admired about him.

“It would appear so,” Naomi agrees. “Which is why I need you to determine if Dean Winchester has any copies of that file. Check his phone and his computer. Find out if he opened that attachment at all.”

Castiel shuffles some mental blocks. Inspecting the computer should be easy, provided there’s no elaborate protection aside from a regular password. People leave their laptops at home all the time, so a simple B&E should do the trick. The phone, on the other hand, could prove more problematic. No one lets their cell phone out of their sight these days. “Am I allowed to engage with him?”

“Not only are you allowed; you should. Get close and figure out what he knows. But do tread carefully, Castiel. He might be more dangerous than he appears.”

Judging solely based on the file still open on Castiel’s tablet, Dean Winchester is about as dangerous as a dandelion, though it would be careless to dismiss the possibility that he’s anything but. He was Michael’s friend, and that makes him a wildcard in Castiel’s book.

“What should I do if he gets spooked and runs?”

“Stop him,” Naomi says. “By any means necessary. Shoot him, if you have to. Preferably not dead, but if the situation gets dicey… well. I’ll leave that to your discretion.”

Castiel chews on his lip. His discretion usually leans in favor of not blowing people’s brains out unless it’s absolutely unavoidable.

Before he can stop that train of thought, the scene plays out in his head again: a sharp ring of a gunshot and Michael’s short gasp— a crimson stain on his shirt growing, spreading— him sliding to his knees, then backwards onto the concrete— life leaving his eyes with the last, pained rattle of breath—

Naomi’s impatient voice in his ear snaps him back to reality.

“I’m here, I apologize,” he says stiffly. “I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow.” He glances at the hotel alarm clock. The sun will be up soon. “Or today.”

“Good.” Naomi’s tone softens unexpectedly, as if she’s only now remembered what he’s been through in the last twenty-four hours. She wasn’t privy to his relationship with Michael – otherwise Castiel wouldn’t have been let anywhere near this case – but she’s well aware of their work history. It’s one of the main reasons she sent him here in the first place, counting on his intimate knowledge of Michael’s M.O. As much as she doesn’t condone her officers getting attached to anyone, including each other, she knows the two of them were close. A unit. She knows Michael’s death is not something Castiel can just walk off on command. Perhaps that’s why she takes a longer breath and says, gentle enough it could be construed as concern, “Get some sleep, then.”

Castiel doubts solid rest is in the cards for him, but he nods, even though she can’t see him, and murmurs an affirmative.

He’s about to hang up when Naomi adds, “Oh, and Castiel?”

“Yes?”

“You should watch your back.”

He frowns. That’s a given on any assignment. “Why?”

“Because the NSA has sent someone as well.”

Castiel bristles. “I can handle it.”

“I know that,” Naomi says, high praise delivered dry and flat. “But it’s out of my hands. The Intersect Project is a joint initiative. We can hardly expect the NSA to sit and twiddle their thumbs – after all, they’ve put as much data into that computer as we have. So stay ahead but play nice, will you?”

“Who did they send?” Castiel asks, sidestepping the question.

Naomi sighs. “Victor Henriksen. I don’t recall if you’ve ever had the pleasure?”

Castiel hasn’t, but he’s heard the name and the stories. A decorated ex-marine, Henriksen is famed for being a superlative sniper and an accomplished agent with many successful missions under his belt. The man is a subject of water cooler conversations even outside of his own agency. People say he’s everything an operative should be. Efficient. Committed. When necessary, ruthless.

Overconfidence is not among Castiel’s vices, but there’s a part of him that likes to play fast and loose with his own safety, and that part – usually manageable, now dangerously grief-driven – hopes he’ll get a chance to go up against Henriksen. And wouldn’t that be something, to confront a legend and come out on top. Henriksen might have a reputation and the advantage of experience, but Castiel has something else: a sense of betrayal and bereavement strong enough to carry him beyond his limits.

“He won’t be a problem,” he tells Naomi.

“I’m glad to hear it. Goodnight, Castiel.”

It’s closer to morning than night at this point, but Castiel flips off the lights and crawls into bed anyway, determined to get at least an hour or two of sleep. He’s got a busy day ahead of him, and every little helps.

* * *

The break-in is a bust.

Forcing entry into the apartment complex, then the apartment itself is a breeze – it’s on the ground floor, empty since all of its occupants have gone to work in the morning, ridiculously vulnerable to someone who knows what they’re doing. The windows are all latched and there’s no spare key hidden in proximity, but Castiel whips out his trusty bump key and the front door opens before him in a matter of seconds. Undetected, he slips inside and finds himself staring across an open plan kitchen and living room.

While the apartment is on the smaller side, it feels homey rather than cramped, lived-in and welcoming in a way Castiel’s own never was. A frilly blanket hangs over the armrest of a dark gray three-seater sofa, a few books strewn around the coffee table along with an eyeglasses case and a half-burnt candle in a glass jar. The kitchen table bears the remains of a hastily eaten breakfast, though some efforts have been made to clean up, the dishes stacked together with the cutlery piled on top.

With no laptop in sight, Castiel sets out to find Dean Winchester’s bedroom. The first room he enters is clearly occupied by a couple, as evidenced by two cluttered nightstands perched on either side of a king-sized bed and a mixture of male and female clothing scattered around. Since Sam and Sarah aren’t his primary targets, Castiel doesn’t linger; he directs his steps to the other room, opens the door, and – jackpot. An unmade bed, a Star Trek poster on the wall, a bookcase that looks like it’s about to break down under the weight of everything it carries, a small desk – and there, on top of it, a closed jet-black laptop.

Once the computer boots up and shows a log-in screen, Castiel slides his password decryptor into the USB port. He could try to hack it on his own – he does have some training in that area, after all – but the CIA tech will achieve the same result much faster and with less hassle. There’s no point in wasting time.

While he waits for the decryptor to do its job, he saunters towards the overflowing bookcase and, going left to right, peruses the titles printed on the book spines. (Dean Winchester appears to have a rather eclectic taste, which Castiel appreciates greatly. It’s not often you see Pratchett, Gaiman and Pullman chilling next to thick, brick-like computer science textbooks, something called The Barbecue Bible, A Day in the Life of Marlon Bundo, a hardback on the history of drag in America, and The Nanny Diaries.) He only makes it halfway through the third shelf from the top when a soft ding alerts him to a successful log-in. He’s in.

And the Intersect is not there.

He double- and triple-checks, searching by date and by name. He even logs into Dean’s email account in hopes that maybe when accessed from the device it was first opened on, the attachment will be intact, but in vain. Undeterred, Castiel sweeps the room for pen drives or anything that can hold a copy of the Intersect. He locates a handful of external hard drives and tries them all one by one, but all he finds are videos, music, pictures and old schoolwork. There’s a bunch of files with odd extensions, too, although their dates don’t match up. Probably some programming files. Castiel’s no expert; all that matters is that it’s not what he came for.

No copies, no original, no nothing. The priceless intel remains in the wind.

Well then. Next stop, Burbank Buy More.

* * *

It’s nearing noon when Castiel walks through the Buy More’s automatic doors, greeted by a gust of unnecessary air conditioning (it’s _January_ , for God’s sake, the temperature outside hasn’t even hit 70) and a large yellow sign advertising Bluetooth headphones (“Now up to 30% off!”). His gaze wanders around, taking in rows of shelves stacked with electronics of all kinds, from discreet wearables to huge flatscreen TVs. The shelves run at an angle to the main aisle, which cuts through the entire store and ends with a white-and-red booth that announces itself as the Nerd Herd in bold block letters slapped overhead.

There are two people behind the counter: a small redheaded woman sitting in a chair and a tall, broad-shouldered man standing next to her, both of them dressed in white short-sleeved shirts. They seem engrossed in conversation, which Castiel takes full advantage of, studying them as he approaches. The redhead looks somewhat familiar and it only takes Castiel a few seconds to place her; she features prominently in the pictures Dean keeps on his hard drives, as well as on Dean’s Facebook. This must be Charlie.

The man’s back is turned away, but his height, build and hair color all match Dean Winchester’s description. Looks like Castiel’s in luck.

It’s Charlie who notices him first. She spares him a curious glance, her eyes widening a little, before leaning towards her companion and mouthing something to him.

Just as Castiel comes to a stop at the helpdesk, the man spins on his heel.

It _is_ Dean Winchester, and pictures do not do him justice. The green of his eyes, washed-out in photographs, stands out rich and vibrant against the crispy white of his shirt. His nose and cheeks are covered in a light smattering of freckles undetectable to a phone camera. He has eyelashes for miles, and his lips part slightly as he stares. Oh, but he’s delightful. It would be a crying shame to have to shoot a face as beautiful as this.

Castiel smiles. The curtain’s up.

“Hello,” he says. He leans against the counter in a friendly, relaxed manner, reminding himself to act casual and unthreatening. His left hand slips into his jacket pocket and thumbs open the cloning app on his spare phone.

Dean’s eyes trail down his torso before snapping back up quickly, the faintest trace of a blush tinting his cheeks. The flash of attraction on his face is brief, but impossible to miss for someone looking as closely as Castiel is right now.

Interesting.

“Hi— hello,” Dean stammers, visibly pulling himself together. Either he’s playing Castiel, or he has exceptionally poor control over his facial features. “What can I do for you?”

The line of attack presents itself immediately. While Castiel typically avoids honey traps, considering them too high-risk and unpredictable most of the time, he’s never had any problems with seducing targets or potential assets into cooperating. Back during his CIA training, he was one of the only three people in his class who passed their Infiltration and Inducement of Enemy Personnel exam on the first try. It was astonishing, the amount of soon-to-be officers who failed just because they hadn’t expected their test target to be of the same sex as them.

Castiel might have had a private laugh at their expense.

Despite his personal bias against courting as a reconnaissance technique, he decides to run with it this time. It’s a no-brainer, really. Dean is gorgeous, and he’s clearly interested. Unless it’s disingenuous (a possibility Castiel still doesn’t want to rule out), asking him out is his best bet.

He glances up at Dean through his eyelashes. “My phone’s acting up on me.” It’s in excellent shape, actually, but Castiel digs it out of his pocket and slides it across the counter, pasting on a concerned expression. At the same time, the second phone in his other pocket clones the contents of Dean’s SIM card. “I was hoping you could help me?”

“That’s why I’m here,” Dean says, picking up the phone and unlocking it.

Castiel knows he won’t find anything wrong with it, so he adds, “I think it’s the battery. When I plug it in, it’s not charging. Or rather, it starts to charge, then stops, then starts again and so on.”

Between the two of them, it was Michael who knew his way around technology better, but Castiel can hold his own if need be. Intermittent charging is usually a cable problem, unverifiable without the charger there to check.

Dean seems to think along those lines as well, because he points out the cable as a potential culprit, then produces a micro USB cord and plugs the phone in, smiling when the screen lights up. “We should wait a few minutes to make sure it keeps charging,” he says, “but I’m willing to bet the cable you’ve been using is frayed. Buy a new one and problem solved.”

“Thank God,” Castiel says with a laugh. “I thought I’d have to get a new phone.”

He’s about to offer a thank-you when Dean grins back at him and says, “If you ever do, drop by and I’ll help you choose.”

The words take them both by surprise. Dean’s eyes widen, as if he can’t believe his own audacity. His shoulders hunch and his gaze skitters away and something about it, about the shame and embarrassment suffusing his reaction, makes Castiel think his flirting has been received badly before.

This man can’t be Michael’s accomplice. He’s too genuine.

Castiel recovers quickly, smiling as he catches and holds Dean’s eye. “I might take you up on that…” He’s not supposed to know Dean’s name yet, so he makes a show of glancing down at the name tag on his chest. “...Dean.”

“Anytime, customer whose name I’ve yet to find out.”

It’s quite refreshing to not have to fake his smiles while on a job. They seem to come easily and effortlessly around Dean.

Castiel introduces himself and makes a point to initiate physical contact by shaking Dean’s hand, broad and sturdy in his.

Once Dean gives him back his phone and instructs him on where to find a new cable (which Castiel will buy, of course; can’t be too careful), there are no more excuses left to fall back on. Luckily, it feels like the mutual attraction has been established well enough.

Acutely aware of Charlie watching them from the sidelines, Castiel chooses a pickup line that’s just the right combination of cheesy and sweet, and he asks for Dean’s phone number. Dean gives it willingly, his smile blinding as he programs a new contact into Castiel’s cell.

“I’ll see you around, Dean,” Castiel says. Reluctant to leave but wary of coming across as too eager, he lingers, his eyes dragging over Dean’s face. If he could justify it to himself, he would stay and chat some more, try to peel off the veneer and see if this man truly is as charming and unaffected as he appears.

It’s best not to overdo it on the first try, though.

“I sure hope so,” Dean replies, just this side of suggestive. The corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile, and his fingers fly up to adjust the knot on his tie. It’s like getting a written note saying _I’m really into you._

Hook, line, and sinker.

* * *

Castiel’s phone chimes with a new text from Dean just as he’s sitting down for late lunch at a family restaurant on San Fernando Boulevard. Between the speckled Formica tables, the linoleum floors and the green vinyl booths, the place exudes a strong roadside diner vibe that makes Castiel feel right at home.

Dean starts with an innocuous inquiry after Castiel’s phone – a thinly veiled excuse, considering it was never broken in the first place – and they proceed to text back and forth while Castiel waits for his order to arrive. It’s nothing raunchy, just a bunch of innocent messages without much substance to them, but it’s nice anyway; effortless in a way that doesn’t feel directed for once. When Dean asks him out for drinks, easy and straightforward, Castiel can’t help but smile down at the screen.

“Texting a special someone?” asks an elderly waitress that appears at Castiel’s elbow. She places his chili omelet in front of him and pulls back with a knowing smile.

Castiel wouldn’t even know how to begin answering that, so he shrugs a shoulder and grabs a fork. “Thank you,” he murmurs, gesturing at the plate.

“Of course, honey. Enjoy your meal.”

As he chews on the omelet, Castiel turns their meeting over in his mind. It still feels imprudent to dismiss him as a potential threat, but all the information Castiel has gathered in the last twenty-four hours shows Dean Winchester to be an ordinary man who leads an ordinary life. Besides, there is an authenticity to his behavior that’s incredibly difficult to fake – Castiel would know. The way Dean talked, smiled, blushed; it all felt honest and unfiltered. He didn’t weigh his words, he wasn’t looking for an angle. He just was.

For someone so used to playing mind games, it’s like a breath of fresh air.

Castiel pulls out his spare phone and scrolls through its stolen contents once again, more out of lazy curiosity than anything else. He already knows the Intersect is not there, but it might still be a good idea to browse Dean’s camera roll and messages, see if anything suspicious catches his eye. Castiel isn’t counting on it, though. At this point, Dean must be either a regular Joe or a criminal mastermind so skilled that he would never make the rookie mistake of keeping anything incriminating on himself.

The photo gallery isn’t too extensive. Dean doesn’t take selfies unless it’s with friends, and most of his snapshots are random objects or places that seem to have attracted his interest: animals and funny sidewalk signs, blurry fireworks and Christmas lights downtown. There’s also a string of pictures of a man making enraged faces, clearly trying to snatch the phone from Dean’s hand. The younger brother.

The corner of Castiel’s mouth ticks up.

After lunch, he makes his way back to the hotel and takes a long shower, turning the pressure and the temperature high enough to beat the exhaustion out of his muscles. As he stands under the spray, hot water sluicing down his back and humidity plastering his hair to his head, his body relaxes. Slowly, he rolls his shoulders, the knots in his neck loosening bit by bit. It’s warm and pleasant and soon enough, he feels a stir of arousal between his legs.

Damn it.

He really, _really_ doesn’t want to do this right now.

Closing his eyes, he leans his forehead against the shower wall. It’s been easy not to think about Michael today and instead let himself be swept by the task at hand. Focused on Dean, he almost managed to bottle it up again. But now this—

This is the slow moment in between, after one errand and before another. The opportunity to blow off some steam and unwind, however briefly. In countless hotel rooms, across a dozen different countries, him and Michael would take advantage of those times. They would squeeze in under the spray and grind their hips together, hands scrambling for purchase on the tiles; they would blow each other against the steamed-up mirror, fingers twisted into damp hair; sometimes, if the schedule allowed, they would move to the bed and fuck until they were both spent and loose-limbed. The sex was good, but even better was the way it improved their performance on the job. Getting laid, Castiel had discovered, does wonders in that regard. He’s always more confident and concentrated after a good roll in the hay, and seeking out one-night stands in whatever city the CIA happens to send him to is such a hassle. It was nice to have his physical needs met – so thoroughly, too – without having to make small talk, without wasting time on chasing down casual hookups, without lying about who he is and what he’s doing in town. Without any words at all, usually.

It was also nice to fall asleep to the feeling of Michael’s fingers carding through his hair, although Castiel didn’t allow himself that often.

He sighs, his eyes fluttering open. The grim reflections haven’t caused his erection to flag; if anything, remembering their sexual encounters in graphic detail only aggravated the situation.

“Shit,” he mutters, squeezing the base of his cock almost aggressively. It feels like his body is betraying him. He’s not in the mood – if he wasn’t so determined to keep everything under wraps, he would be in _mourning_ , for God’s sake. Castiel might not be the most emotionally well-adjusted human being on the planet, but he’s not messed up enough to jack off thinking about someone who hasn’t been dead two full days yet. Truth be told, he’d be too scared of breaking down midway through to even try.

No, this is not happening. His dick will have to wait its damn turn.

Castiel shuts off the water and steps out of the shower, then towels his hair perfunctorily and lets it air dry the rest of the way while he dives into his suitcase and roots around for some decent clothes. Eventually, he settles for keeping the jeans and the t-shirt he’s worn today, but swapping the casual denim jacket for a black leather one. Feels more appropriate for a first date, somehow, like he’s made an effort. Not that it matters, since Dean is already interested, but Castiel is a stickler for details. If he were going on a real date, he would dress to impress.

With almost two hours to spare before he has to leave, he permits himself to stretch out on the bed in nothing but his hotel-provided bathrobe and watch TV, just to take his mind off things. It turns out to be a bad idea; the television is dull, the bed comfortable and warm, the cotton robe soft where it brushes against his bare thighs. Before long, he’s half hard again and pissed off about it beyond belief.

He rolls over onto his side, letting his cheek rest on the pillow. It would be irresponsible to go on a job like this, tense and full of pent-up frustration. He should just rub one out and be done with it, but the mere possibility of his imagination slipping into Michael territory keeps his hands firmly at his sides.

Of course, he could dig out his laptop and search for pornography. Or just think about someone else.

It’s that last thought that unlocks something in his brain, and Castiel comes to a realization he really should have had sooner.

If everything goes well tonight, Dean might have… expectations.

He gazes unseeingly across the room as he processes that prospect. The idea of having to sleep with Dean is not exactly abhorrent. Castiel probably wouldn’t – won’t, unless the situation demands it – but mainly due to the exceptionally bad timing. If circumstances were different, with Michael out of the picture in a less horrific way, Dean a stranger met in passing rather than a person of interest in a high-stakes game, Castiel wouldn’t mind taking him home for a night. In fact, he would love to put his mouth on Dean, see if his shoulders and ass are as freckled as his nose, if he’s a screamer and in case he isn’t, whether or not Castiel can make him into one. Dean is just the kind of man Castiel would seek out: tall and lean, with lips that beg to be kissed and a half-gentle, half-flirty smile that brightens his whole face.

With a resigned sigh, he turns over onto his stomach and pushes his hips into the comforter. This is a monumentally bad idea. It’s immature and unprofessional. Dean is a target, he’s Michael’s old friend and roommate, he might still be a criminal, for crying out loud—

Castiel groans as he rocks himself into the bed, throwing reason and dignity to the wind. It’s fine. It’s nothing but a private fantasy that bears no consequences. He can easily discard and forget it once he’s done. For now, he imagines Dean underneath him, Dean kissing his neck and sliding his hands down Castiel’s sides to cup his ass. Dean humming encouragements in his ear and blushing as beautifully as he has today behind that counter. Dean arching into him, stroking himself lazily as he watches Castiel above him.

Biting his lip at the maddening friction of fabric against skin, he wonders if Dean will want to do that with him tonight. Maybe he’s the kind of person who likes to test sexual compatibility on the first date. Maybe he’s the kind who prefers to take it slow and wait until they can get to know each other better. It’s something Michael would know about him, probably—

Castiel’s hips still. His breath, caught on an inhale, doesn’t seem to be able to leave his lungs. Something clogs his throat, hot and cloying like a wad of cotton candy turned sour. It’s sharp-edged and painful and he doesn’t register what it is until it comes spilling out.

The first garbled sob takes him so much by surprise that he almost chokes on it, muffling it into the pillow. He blinks rapidly and swallows in a desperate attempt to squash it down, but there’s only so many times grief can be ignored and overridden. His body slips out of his control as his shoulders begin to shake, eyes squeezing shut and fingers clawing at the sheets. The news finally hits home.

It’s over. He lost him.

They both lost him, except Dean doesn’t know it yet.

Hot tears leak out the corners of his eyes, but Castiel is too taken aback by them to even feel embarrassed. He hasn’t shed any in so long – not out of pain, despite being shot and stabbed on several occasions; not for other colleagues he’s lost over the years, despite being friendly with many; not after his father… not even then; not for anyone, not in _ages_. The fact that it’s Michael’s death that broke the dam means Castiel has underestimated the extent of his own attachment to the man.

Or he’s growing old.

Or he knows, somewhere in the back of his head, that if it were his own chest the bullet went through, no one but Michael would care.

The thing is, Michael wasn’t supposed to go first. He had other people to mourn him – a mother and a sister in Connecticut, Castiel knew; some civilian friends ignorant about the true nature of his work; some college buddies, Dean Winchester among them. People would show up for his funeral, cry after him, remember him as more than an employee or a co-worker.

Michael was supposed to be that for Castiel. With him gone, if the next assignment goes sideways and Castiel ends up six feet under, no one will be bothered. All he can hope for is Naomi heaving a sigh and feeling some sort of regret for losing a skilled operative. Although to be fair, “regret” might be too optimistic; knowing her, it will be irritation at having to find and train someone new in his place. That’s what he’ll be in death: a disruption to the otherwise smooth operation of her agency.

In between big gulps of air that only serve to hyperventilate him, there’s a word that Castiel latches onto. “Asshole,” he whispers, voice scraped raw. He’s not sure if he’s talking about himself or Michael, berating himself for self-pity or Michael for going off the deep end and leaving him. It doesn’t matter. Who he means, who he’s crying for – none of it matters. “Asshole. Fucking _asshole_.”

He has no idea how long it takes him to calm down, but when he finally lifts his head from the tear-soaked pillow and rolls over onto his back, the sky outside the window is twilight-grey, the room around him dark. He reaches out to switch on the bedside lamp and looks down at himself.

Well, the good news is that his erection has been taken care of.

He lies there and breathes for a few moments longer, staring up at the ceiling as he attempts to regain his footing. While unexpected, a healthy bout of crying might be just what he needed. He hardly feels any better for it, everything still too fresh and devastating, but it seems to have steadied him somewhat.

Palming his blotchy cheek with one hand, he flips his wrist to check the time. To make it without having to rush, he needs to leave in half an hour.

It’s enough time to do everything, but without room for dawdling. Sitting upright, Castiel wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and sets about getting himself ready.

First, he goes to the bathroom and splashes cold water on his face, running it over his fingertips and then patting it lightly under his eyes. It does help some, but he still rummages through his suitcase until he finds eye drops, then applies them generously before checking the result in the mirror. Not bad. Any residual redness should be gone in a few minutes.

Next, it’s time to dress up and gear up. Remembering Naomi’s warning about Henriksen, Castiel puts on his favorite bulletproof vest, a lightweight, easily concealable one that saved his life once or twice before. Once the rest of his clothes are in place, he slips a handgun into his shoulder holster and straps on two knives into his belt.

When he catches a peek of himself in the mirror before heading out, the guy looking back at him appears completely put-together. Eyes alert instead of bleary, skin back to lightly tanned instead of reddened and splotchy, hair— well. It’s mussed and refusing to lie down flat, but that’s as decent as it’ll ever get. Half-heartedly, Castiel runs his fingers through it, unsurprised when he accomplishes nothing. With a long-suffering sigh, he grabs his car keys, wallet, and hotel keycard.

The date might be a ruse, but it would be impolite to make Dean wait.

* * *

Castiel’s first impression from the store was absolutely correct. Dean Winchester is _adorable_.

In between sips of beer, Dean chats happily about himself and his family, whom he appears to be very fond of. Nothing he says could be deemed valuable information, but it’s still nice to listen to him talk about how his little brother is barely out of school and already hired at a well-known law firm; how far out of his league his girlfriend is; how Dean didn’t always live in California but loves it here, the sun and the ocean close-by; how his best friend Charlie tried to drag him to some k-pop concert last week and Dean resisted her with all his might.

“It’s this Korean boyband and there are, like, a dozen dudes in it. Must be a challenge to even fit them all on an album cover together. You ever heard of them?”

With a laugh, Castiel admits that he has not. “Whose concert would you like to go to, then?” he asks. It’s meant mostly to put Dean further at ease, but beyond that there is a small, selfish part of Castiel that likes the way Dean’s eyes light up when he talks about a topic that interests him.

The question provokes an animated, long-winded response containing a host of band names that mean nothing to Castiel, ending with an earnest, “What about you?”

“I’m more of a book guy,” Castiel replies, not untruthfully, then swiftly steers the conversation in another direction by asking Dean about his job. Dean, bless his heart, doesn’t blink an eye at the non-sequitur, too busy hiding the way his eyes keep dropping to Castiel’s mouth.

As they talk, Castiel makes sure to listen for any inconsistencies or slip-ups, though it feels like a needless effort at this point. The last thirty minutes have solidified his diagnosis: Dean Winchester has no clue about who Michael really was and what he’s gotten him into. He’s just a sweet guy who happened to have roomed with a future CIA operative. Whatever Michael’s reasons were for sending him the Intersect, Dean appears to be even more in the dark about them than Castiel.

Fingertip tracing the lip of his glass, Castiel looks into Dean’s eyes, listens to him talk about the drudgery of his day job, and contemplates how similar Dean is to Michael in some respects while so vastly different in others. Just like Michael, Dean is clever and quick-witted, with a spark of alertness and intelligence in his eye that’s eerily familiar. Unlike Michael, Dean is attentive and naturally tactile, if his hand wandering closer to Castiel’s on the bar counter, seemingly without Dean noticing, is any indication. (Castiel feigns unawareness and mirrors him.) Also unlike Michael, who marched through life unaffected by anything, Dean has a sadness about him that his smile doesn’t quite manage to cover up.

A half-hour long conversation still isn’t sufficient evidence of Dean being who he claims he is, but Castiel tends to rely on his intuition as much as he relies on cold, hard facts. And right now, his gut tells him that Dean is oblivious to this whole mess, which in turn makes him extremely vulnerable.

When the three NSA suits enter his line of sight, Castiel’s first thought is, _I need to protect him_.

It’s unclear how much the NSA has learned by now about Dean and his role in the Intersect theft, and Castiel would rather not test the lengths to which they’re willing to go to secure him. Unarmed and unprepared for confrontation, Dean is helpless. He’s also the only person alive with information about the Intersect’s current whereabouts. His life is the absolute priority.

Mindful of a bar full of innocent bystanders, Castiel tries to defuse the situation without raising a commotion. He leans into Dean as far as necessary to conceal the movement of his hands, dragging his lips over Dean’s cheek, then down his jaw as he slips a knife from his waistband and launches it through the air. The blade embeds itself in the closest man’s thigh, a warning rather than an outright aggression. They may be NSA, but they’re still people. And technically, they’re all on the same side.

The warning goes unheeded; the other two men reach for their weapons.

Unaware of impeding danger, Dean wastes precious seconds insisting that they split the bill instead of letting Castiel stay behind and pay. As much as Castiel appreciates a man striving for equality on a first date, he’s unwilling for either him or Dean to get shot in the name of it. When the mirror above the bar shatters, showering them in broken glass, Castiel already has Dean pinned to the floor and gun drawn.

Fucking Henriksen, bringing backup muscle while Castiel works the case all by himself.

They make it out of the bar in one piece, but Henriksen is already waiting for them outside, ready to give chase behind the wheel of a black Dodge Journey. He almost drives them off the road a few times, but this is not Castiel’s first rodeo. They lose him.

Dean keeps asking questions throughout, and once they get a moment of reprieve, Castiel runs out of excuses to ignore him. On their way to the roof, he decides that they’re in too deep for secrecy. Dean can’t help him if he doesn’t know what’s going on. Screw confidentiality.

He drops Michael’s name and watches Dean’s face, unsure what he’s hoping to find there.

Dean’s breath catches visibly. His first instinct upon hearing that Michael was CIA is to deny it vehemently.

He admits to receiving the email and opening it.

He’s paralyzed with fear when Henriksen shows up, when Castiel draws his own gun and aims it at him.

He’s scared and disoriented and if what he says is true – if he really saw the encoded images that make up the Intersect computer – then Michael has effectively ruined his life.

That assessment is confirmed when Dean flashes in front of Castiel for the first time.

Even though Dean’s half-turned away in a clumsy attempt to escape, the moment it happens is impossible to miss. For a split second, he freezes, body locked up and stiff; then, he sways on his feet and staggers, an audible gasp punched out of him. Keenly aware of how close they’re standing to the rooftop’s edge, Castiel has to remind himself to stay put and ignore the urge to go to Dean and grab him, drag him back to safety.

Before either him or Henriksen can ask what’s wrong, Dean turns to them, pale and wide-eyed, and announces an imminent attack on a NATO general’s life – as if the evening wasn’t interesting enough as it is.

When Dean explains what he’s seen and Henriksen redirects his aim at him, Castiel is almost grateful to be able to take his own gun off Dean and point it at Henriksen instead. Not only does he not want to shoot Dean; now, he knows he can’t. Dean doesn’t have the Intersect, he _is_ the Intersect. He’s an asset that Castiel needs to protect at all costs.

So he does.

* * *

Once all is said and done, the bomb defused, emergency services called to deal with the aftermath, and a tentative truce reached, Dean and Castiel lean side by side against Dean’s garish Toyota. Its front bumper is severely dented, but at least it hasn’t fallen off altogether. Castiel has seen – and done – worse. He’s walked away from car chases that left two warped, mangled pieces of metal in their wake. This is nothing.

“It was all a job,” Dean says.

Inwardly, Castiel sighs. There’s no point in denying it, so he doesn’t. “Yes,” he says. _I’m sorry_ , he doesn’t add.

The look of hurt on Dean’s face blends into resignation, causing a weird, uncomfortable twinge behind Castiel’s ribs. It feels like remorse, but it can’t be. Everything he did was warranted and necessary.

Under the flickering light of a nearby streetlamp, Dean bows his head and rubs his hands on his thighs. He looks like death warmed up, slumping weakly against the passenger door of his car. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he’s in the final stages of crashing from the adrenaline high.

Castiel doesn’t know what to say. Dean’s life has been turned upside down and there aren’t any words that can make it better. It crosses his mind that he could provide some reassurance by promising Dean to put every effort into persuading Naomi, but he already said he would talk to her. There’s no point in rephrasing what’s already been established. He keeps his mouth shut.

Dean asks him if he’s into men and Castiel dodges the question. That part of his personal life is not something that needs to be discussed. The only reason it could be relevant is if Castiel wanted… well. That’s a dead-end street, anyway. Either he becomes Dean’s handler, in which case it would be improper, or he’ll be given another assignment, which would cut their acquaintance short. However entranced Castiel finds himself with Dean, it’s clear that nothing can ever happen. It would be harmful to pretend otherwise.

 _Castles in the air_ , his father used to say. _Only a fool builds his home in the clouds and believes himself immune to falling._

If there’s one thing Castiel has learned from him, it’s this. Don’t look up and dream. Look down and watch your step.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says.

Dean drives away and leaves him alone in the middle of the street, his tail lights fading into the night. The scent of rain clings to Castiel’s jacket, the gun in his holster heavier than usual. The bulletproof vest itches more than it should where it rides against his skin.

Castiel stares at the street corner where Dean’s car has disappeared. “Goodnight, Dean,” he mutters to himself. “I’ve had fun with you, too. I wish we could do it again.”

Wrapping his jacket tighter around himself, he crosses the empty road and begins the slow trek back to his own car.

* * *

“Agent Henriksen is not wrong, you know,” Naomi says on the phone an hour later. She’s less than thrilled about their priceless data being stuck in what she called a “fragile human container”, but she didn’t reject Castiel’s request right out of the gate after he briefed her.

“Isn’t he,” Castiel says flatly.

“The safest place for Dean Winchester to be is under lock and key. Do you have any idea what might happen to him if foreign intelligence were to catch wind of this? If anyone, from SVR to Mossad, were to find out that the only barrier between them and our classified information is some,” she scoffs indignantly, “computer repairman.”

“IT support supervisor,” Castiel corrects her automatically. His remark goes ignored, but that’s par for the course.

“Do tell me why I should let him prowl the streets with the Intersect in his head, Officer Novak.”

Back to the official title, then. She must have deemed his grieving period over.

“Because confined to a CIA facility, he is of no use to us,” Castiel says reasonably. “From what you’ve told me, the goal behind the Intersect project was to obtain foreknowledge of security threats and stop damage before it occurs. Sitting in a six by ten cell, he won’t flash.” Castiel takes a deep, fortifying breath and reaches for the big guns. “Ma’am, he looked at a random hotel and told us there was a bomb inside. And he was _right_. It’s clear to me that the knowledge he came to possess needs to be used.”

“Hm,” Naomi says.

Sensing her hesitation, Castiel plows on. He’s close to swaying her, he can feel it.

“You said the Intersect project operated at the highest level of secrecy. That means aside from a select few in the CIA and the NSA, no one knows about the computer itself, much less about Dean Winchester. He hasn’t said anything to anyone either. Agent Henriksen and I are more than capable of ensuring that even if someone does find out about Dean, they won’t make it anywhere near him. I understand your concerns, Ma’am, but I believe the potential gains far outweigh the risks.”

On the line, Naomi is silent. Castiel hears the faint tapping of a pen against a flat surface.

Since his boss tends to focus on the bigger picture and brush aside any personal considerations, Castiel has chosen to appeal to her logic rather than her conscience. Still, he wonders if he’s made a mistake in not bringing Dean’s family and his well-being into the argument. Letting Dean stay would be kinder, and forcing him to pay for Michael’s betrayal – cruel. It’s hard to say if pointing that out to Naomi would help Castiel’s case or only serve to compromise his objectivity in her eyes.

Finally, Naomi clicks her tongue. “It all comes down to whether or not you can protect him,” she says.

“I can,” Castiel replies firmly, immediately. “I will.”

Another stretch of silence, long enough for Castiel to start wondering how he’s going to deliver the bad news to Dean.

“Very well,” Naomi says. “He can stay – for now,” she adds; bestowing a favor and warning that she can snatch it back in the same breath. “I guess we can arrange for Doctor Bevell to examine him on site. In the meantime, you’re to keep a close eye on him. We’ll rent you an apartment and find you a civilian job – probably in food service, like that time in Ukraine. As for the cover story, it’s up to you, although I strongly suggest something that will allow you close and frequent contact.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“I’m putting a lot of trust in you, Officer. Do not let me down.”

“I won’t, Ma’am.”

The call disconnects.

Releasing a breath, Castiel lowers his phone from his ear. He stares at it until it goes dark, then wakes it up again and types up a text to Dean. He receives no answer, but it doesn’t alarm him. Dean must be fast asleep by now. He’ll read it in the morning.

Castiel should head to bed as well, but something stalls him. The edge of his fingernail drums against the darkened screen of his phone, a light _tap tap tap_ echoing in the room.

He unlocks it and opens the messages again. Finds his conversation with Michael.

 _See you soon?_ his last message reads, still.

 _Why did you do this to him_ , he types up. Deletes the last word. Types up _me_. Deletes the whole message.

He flings the phone onto the table, angry with himself. What the hell is he doing? Michael can’t answer him, and torturing himself with questions is counterproductive. If he wants to deliver on his promise to Naomi, he needs to have both feet firmly in the present. That’s the bottom line. The true objective of this assignment. To protect Dean Winchester.

Castiel keeps his eyes off the phone and his head held high as he starts to undress for bed.

Dean will be so damn well protected it’ll put the Secret Service to shame.

Whatever it takes.

**Author's Note:**

> Now that you have some backstory... what are you most curious to see in the sequel? 😏


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